“Four—”
Now his brother was flashing fang.
“Fifty dollars. Is that acceptable, Milo?”
The boy stared at him with wide eyes. He looked as steamrolled as Quirion felt. “That’s a lot of money—” Milo started.
Quirion nodded. “You are right, I think.”
Behind Milo’s back, Dre was moving his hand in a slitting motion over his throat. Sammy had dialed the pleading in his eyes up by a thousand, causing Quirion again to change what he had been about to say. “Come to think of it, fifty dollars seems not enough considering the high standards you’ll have to live up to. Let’s say sixty?”
Now Milo looked as if he’d been hit by a rockslide. A not-so-subtle nudge from Sammy’s elbow had the boy nodding.
“Yes. Yes, thank you, Quirion.” Milo lowered his gaze, shuffling his feet. “Uhm, when do you want me to start?”
This time Quirion took the direct route instead of engaging in the pantomime game from before. He stared at Dre, who mouthed, “Tomorrow”.
Inwardly, Quirion sighed. He had one day to come up with a work plan for Milo that wouldn’t disrupt his own routines. Great. He smiled at his new assistant. “Would tomorrow be acceptable, Milo? I could really use the help.”
Milo cleared his throat. “Yes, totally. I can come right after school.” He glanced at Dre. “That is, if you have time to bring me?”
Dre smiled broadly. “Of course I have time.”
To Quirion’s ears, the words sounded like the bells of doom.
* * * *
The even more recent past
Quirion stepped through the rip in space and time into Sammy’s bookstore, where he was welcomed by the familiar scent of loads of books and an unfamiliar faint whimpering that had his demon coming out the second he realized it was Milo crying. Quirion hated to admit it—but admit it he did, because he was the son of the demon king and not a sniveling coward who couldn’t face reality—but Milo had grown on him. Verymuch so. In the four months since Milo had started working for him, Quirion’s life had changed from being that of a hermit who treasured his solitude to someone who actually looked forward to company. Well, not any company. He could still do without his brothers. No. He looked forward to seeing Milo. And now Milo was crying. And that simply wouldn’t do.
Quirion started stalking in the direction of the crying, where he could also hear muted voices discussing who to call. If Quirion wasn’t completely mistaken—which he never was, thank you very much—those were the voices of Declan and Troy, his father’s mates. How his father had managed to end up with two gorgeous uber alphas was anyone’s guess, but the old demon was happy and too occupied with fucking to bother Quirion about the incident in that library in Egypt. If he’d even heard about it yet. Alerion was very busy shooting videos for Barion’s and Jon’s video game launch or something along those lines. The only reason Quirion was even mildly interested in the whole endeavor was because they were using the Demon Wars as inspiration for the game and Quirion had written an extensive treatise about this part of demonic history. So far what he had seen and what Milo had told him—the boy was totally hyped when it came to the videos—was, in parts, accurate. Of course, Barion and Jon had switched out places and dates, as well as participants, to keep things obstruse. Nobody needed anybody taking the Demon Wars as an inspiration foractualwar. As for that library, Quirion had tried to keep everything low profile, but when he’d heard about the government’s plans to destroy some of the oldest writings they had because they didn’t conform with their current system of beliefs, he had had to act. And it wasn’t his fault that he’d lost his patience when those idiots had tried to stop him from taking the scrolls. Anybody would have slipped into their demonic form. Plus, it had tickled some primal instinct to see them running through the cellar systemlike panicked rabbits trying to escape the hungry snake. Then he had had to destroy the video evidence, and maybe, just maybe, he’d gone a little overboard and that library would never be the same. It would be brand new, should they decide to re-build, for one thing. But the scrolls and important books were safe in his own library, which was all that mattered.
Another loud hiccuping sound brought Quirion back to the problem at hand. Milo was crying, his demon wanted to reduce anybody responsible for the boy’s tears to a red smear on the ground—or the walls, he wasn’t particular—and he knew his father’s mates were present. Stomping down the narrow hall to the back of Sammy’s shop was easier once he’d tucked his wings in and, when he reached the small room where Sammy stored everything he couldn’t or wouldn’t sell out front, the constant sniffling had his demon ready to go on a rampage.
The door turned out to be his greatest adversary because it was simply not wide enough to let his bulk through. For a moment all he could do was watch as the two uber alphas tried to soothe Milo one moment and turned around with glittering eyes promising death and destruction the next. His demon wasn’t sure if he should be pleased about their readiness to defend Milo—they wouldn’t have much of a chance against him, but anybody else trying to harm the boy would be toast—or annoyed because they werethereto defend Milo.
That’s my job.
Wait a moment. Where didthatcome from?
Quirion stared at the two werewolves and the boy who had yet to realize that another apex predator had just entered the room. Or would enter, as soon as he figured out how to do it without blasting the frame with his shoulders.
“Why isch Milo crying?” The words, a bit distorted because of his fangs, sprang from his lips and finally alerted his assistant to Quirion’s presence.
“Quirion?” Milo lifted his head. To say he cried beautifully would have been a stretch. His cheeks were mottled with red spots, there was a hint of snot under his nose, and his eyes were red-rimmed, which made him look as if he were seriously ill. In his long life, Quirion had always done his best to avoid humans precisely for this reason—they were messy and wet and sticky and about as appealing as the rat dimension. Which still had the bonus of no humans being there. But when it came to Milo, Quirion had by now realized that he didn’t mind what would have driven him crazy with anybody else. He attributed it to Milo having gone through the Sammy school of dealing with paranormals—bringing them to heel with a cuteness that should be outlawed.
“I’m here, Milo.” Quirion retracted his teeth and shot Declan and Troy a dark look. The two alphas didn’t even flinch.
“You good here, or should we call Sammy?” one of them, Quirion thought it was Troy, asked.
“We’re fine, thank you.” He stared at the two werewolves. The two werewolves stared back, their eyebrows raised. “Why aren’t you leaving? Isaidwe’re fine.” Until now, Quirion hadn’t been under the impression that his two stepfathers—shudder—were somehow slow but he could always reassess.
“Dude, we can’t leave. You’re blocking the way.” This had to be Declan. He was trying very hard not to grin.
Quirion huffed. “I knew that.” He turned his body sideways to allow the two alphas to pass. Once they had squeezed past him through the door, grinning like mad men, he retracted his wings and shrunk his body a bit before he stepped inside the room.
“If you need us, call Sammy! Bye, Milo!” With that, Declan and Troy stomped through the hall back into the shop then outside to the street. Once the chimes made it known they were gone, Quirion turned his full attention on Milo. His young assistant stared at the tabletop.
